


A Moment for the Scribe

by ProphetessMinty



Series: The Dawning 2020 [7]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Day 7: Beyond Stasis, Destcember 2020, Errata, Fallen | Eliksni, Gen, Open to writing more upon request, Reminiscing, The Dawning (Destiny)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphetessMinty/pseuds/ProphetessMinty
Summary: A mournful Variks visits the frozen form of Eramis and speaks his mind. He thinks on what had been, what is, and what could be for all Eliksni. All the while, he doubts himself and realizes why his efforts at uniting his people had failed.
Series: The Dawning 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076669
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	A Moment for the Scribe

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Destiny or any part of the franchise; all rights and ownership belong to Bungie.
> 
> A/N: {Eliksni chittering}
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~ProphetessMinty

**A Moment for the Scribe**

* * *

_Eliksni once stood tall and upright, now they hunch low without foresight_

_Dreams of Riis are lacking fruit, like a Yaviirsi dried up from the root_

_Eramiskell, drawn to Jovian moon, claws for power among frozen dunes_

_Gathers broken members to her fold, but spreads only blindness in the cold_

_The Darkness weaves its tales of Salvation, false promises leading to utter devastation_

_What the enemy seeks to divide, it does so with fearsome told lies_

_Eliksni are betrayed by the profane, which seeks to bind and further restrain_

_Build under one banner and be reborn; break off your chains and mend the torn_

_Eramiskell seeks to erase our old vision; she insists you join or suffer cruel derision_

_Those who stand in opposition, truly see her selfish ambition_

_The Darkness is like a false desert oasis, it promises freedom but leaves you frozen in stasis_

_If you had counted the cost, my old friend, maybe this would not have been your end_

* * *

Up in the northern hemisphere of Europa, in a place called "Gale's Watch", an old Eliksni Scribe sat on an icy, metal platform kicking his leg over the side. He recalled from his time in the Vestian Outpost seeing many Human-Guardians do this exact same thing. Never having quite understood why they would sit on the edge of a precipice, a dangerous practice he knew, the insectoid decided to try it out. It was an absentminded notion, but the more he kicked an unusual sense of comfort came to him. 

Beside his lower set of arms, the undocked and fleshy ones, sat his tools of craft. A simple scroll and writing utensil. 

Everything is written in his native language—Errata.

While he thought over his newly transcribed verses, jotted down for addition to the archives, his luminous white-blue eyes flicked toward the menacing figure beside him. Had he not known that this glacial effigy had once been among the living, the Eliksni historian would have mistaken it as a detailed sculpture carved from solid ice. Yet, this was no mere artwork or handsome thing. Rather, it was the frozen husk of a former visionary; a quixotic, leader romanced by tenebrous passions. 

They went by many titles: Baroness of the House of Devils; The Archfiend of Twilight Gap; The Shipstealer; and the Kell of House Salvation. 

Eramis, was her name.

Even in absence, the mention of her namesake struck him down with white-hot, electric fear. Eramis had grown to become a spiteful female, beguiled by the Darkness and its infectious touch. In her last days, she was hounded and plagued with creeping Stasis crystals. Malcontent with this unnatural condition, she would vigorously work to break them off like one picks at flaking or infected dermis. Not that Eramiskell would admit to it, even to him, but there was a subconscious fear of it spreading uncontrollably. 

Dark Stasis would not become her Kell, but she would command it like she did her people.

Though in his mind's eye, the Scribe remembered a time when Eramis was not this fiendish monster. She had been a friend to many. Alas, that time had passed away like the Whirlwind which tore Riis asunder. That was when her downward spiraling journey had begun. 

As the Houses fractured, their relationships dissolved, Eramis had become obsessed with rank and grandeur. Clawing her way to the top as her grief turned to hatred, turned to violence. Her heart was as hard as stone, her neck stiff, and her ears unhearing. Just like the old Scribe's people, she too fell far below. House Judgment could no longer extend its quest for peace as its numbers dwindled like dying stars. Such a time of violence, the likes of which the age of antiquity had never before witnessed. 

The Eliksni, so disgustingly christened "The Fallen" by Humanity, wasted away. They squandered their many chances for success as Darkness toyed with their hearts, driving them to selfish investment. He hated what they had become: ferocious pirates; aimless wanderers; and inglorious kinsfolk.

Surely, the Great Machine had seen something worthwhile in his people.

Surely, there was something good in them _then_ , that could still be found in them _now_.

As the wind began to kick up, the Scribe looked to the skies and watched as they swirled together in dismal grey. While the clouds coalesced in dense droves, the far out distance turned murky with every passing minute. As he observed their abysmal behavior, his top, right arm began to ache. Where a prosthetic had once been was nothing more than a nub of a bicep.

Since its prompt and sudden removal, the phantom pains of vicious docking would creep in and take on a whole new level of hollow ache with the coming storms. All the damaged nerves were ablaze with fire, pulsing frequently while the sinew twitched involuntarily. The strange part of it all was the fact that he still felt the arm and claws he did not currently possess.

Hissing, he complained, "My bones, they ache."

As his left hand took to nursing the traumatically injured limb, massaging it with unrequited hope for relief, his left, lower arm grabbed his scroll and writing utensil. While he hid them away on his person, his lower right arm grabbed the walking staff that lay behind his back.

"I must return," he said, his large mandibles clicking with concern. "A storm approaches, _eia_ [ _agreement; yes_ ]?"

Frozen-Eramis neither trembled, nor chattered. 

The only reply was the glistening of the crystal prison which held her tight. 

For all the old historian knew, she could have been dead. Yet, he was unsure of this particular detail. A part of him wondered if she was trapped alive. Was she conscious or unconscious? But whether she was alive, slumbering, or truly dead, he could not confirm the answer for himself. If there was a possibility that she lived, though suspended in Stasis, Eramiskell's beloved council members were all deceased. 

There would be none to see her.

The spidery Scribe languidly stood to his feet, hunching forward, while grasping tightly to his staff. As he did this, his clawed appendages clenched and unclenched, rattling against the metal with a _clickety-clack_. He was the last Eliksni she would have confided in. She hated his innards for all that he was worth, which was not much for a sorry sack of _psakiks_. 

He grimaced as his esteem plummeted quite low. The old Scribe's continual failures had plunged him into social bankruptcy after all. Who would want this " _Ba_ " [one who fails; loser] in their midst?

Perhaps, this predicament was not so bad...? He could speak his mind freely and if she lived, the ferocious female could do nothing but listen. A part of him—a larger part than he was willing to admit—relished in this fact. She was brutish and abusive. Quick to strike at him out of impatience. Conceivably, however, he could speak something of great importance into her life. 

The problem was "what"?

"Remember the old ways, _eia_? Forsake them not. Perhaps you could have been saved. Steered away from failure. Once there was a day when the Kell from each _Na_ [House] came to Judgment. Listen hard they did. Many lessons were learned. Greatly guided and peaceful were they, _eia_?" He sighed, distressed deeply within his spirit, bitter melancholy bleeding out. "I live for the day when each _Na_ comes under one _Bo_ [Banner]. But it appears we each cannot live up to our dreams. How can we steal what must be earned?"

"Many nights, I am awake. Thinking on what has been done. Only one answer to our problems have I found. We both share a common goal: unite each _Bo_. But...our purposes were not entirely selfless, _eia_?" The Scribe chittered, a notion close to tsk-ing like Humans so often resolved to when something was puzzling or amiss. "A _Na_ divided, cannot stand, _eia_? Eramis, Kell-no-more, there must be another way. Something beyond Stasis. Something less dark and more…light."

"You were a zealot much above the people," he rasped. "I was the zealot far below the people. What we truly need is a Kell of Kells _with_ alland _for_ all the people. Our sights were too...narrow minded. 'The ends justify the means' is such a terrible way to live. For too long, Eliksni believed this. Each time they are burned, their opportunities become ashes."

In the time it took the outcast historian to explain himself, it had begun to snow. The air was thick with clustered flakes, carried on the angry howl of the wind. Staggering forward, the Scribe took a bracing step. "As the Humans say: Farewell, my friend. Farewell. When I have a moment, I will return again."

With his head hanging dejectedly, the old Eliksni walked away with shame in his footsteps. As he traveled the distance and came into Eramis' war room, the Scribe sniffed at the air upon noticing its empty state. He had expected to find his patient companion who had escorted him here. 

Where could The Guardian have gone? 

"Looking for someone?" an airy, feminine voice asked. 

Taking a startled step back, the Scribe cocked his head inquiringly, as a stranger materialized in front of him in a glow of white light.

"You are _not_ The Guardian," he chittered rather nervously. She was entirely metal. An "Exo" as the Humans seemed to call them. Her overall design was sleek, themed with elements of mystery. Yet her face, unnatural as it was, seemed rather pinched and angry. This...Exo Stranger...could she be?

"No, but you do know of me," she answered rather confidently. "I am here as a favor to The Guardian—Roman—I mean. He had other matters to attend to. Seemed rather adamant that I escort you."

"Ah, yes. Variks knows of the Stranger who walks through time," he chittered, calming slightly as he swayed. "'Elsie Bray,' yes?"

"Good," the Exo nodded. "Now, enough chit-chat. We have quite the journey back down, yeah? Charon's Crossing is a long way away from here. Anything could happen in that time."

Variks observed how inhumanly, vibrant her blue eyes glowed beneath the hood of her leather cowl. Elsie's personality was a bit more rigid than he would have liked. Yet, he also realized this was probably not for "nothing". Most Humans were not on friendly terms with his kind. How could they be when certain Houses lived up to their bequeathed titles and acted like carnal animals? 

Settling for a slight nod, he followed after his new escort. 

"Oh, and one more thing," Elsie said, turning adroitly on the spot. 

Variks just about walked into her, but quickly scrambled backwards out of reach. As she extended a hand, he shied away until he realized what she had proffered. Tightly gripped in her fist was a netted bag, hanging with the weight of some kind of small, bulb-like fruit. Their colors ranged from: green to yellow, purple to black.

For a moment, Variks sniffed the air inquiringly, taking in the sweet, syrupy aroma. "What is this?" he asked, tentatively reaching for the bag. With each passing second, his mouth was watering fiercely, the smell becoming increasingly tantalizing. 

Elsie made a noise close to that of a stifled chuckle as she said, "They're called 'figs'. Roman told me to give them to you. Something about _Ya-var-si_ figs?"

" _Yav-iir-si_ ," Variks corrected with excited gusto. " _Yaviirsi figs_. I would give my right arm for one. These 'figs' you are holding are not them, but they seem...close." 

Rather quickly, he snatched the bag from Elsie, and ripped it open. Grabbing one of the small, purple pieces of fruit, he tested it gently between his claws. Careful not to accidentally crush it, he brought it to his mandibles, and went to nibbling on it. The Earthen fig had a smooth skin, but its inner meat was chewy and crunchy. The flavor, however, was very ripe and sticky, sweet.

"Mhmm," Variks managed, before greedily claiming a green bulb from the bag.

This one did not last half as long as the first.

"Alright. Bring your whatever-figs and get with it," Elsie chided as she spun on her heel. In her hands was a large weapon, one Variks was not familiar with, but he knew it pulsed when fired. What a strange instrument it was. "What were you doing up here anyhow?"

"Variks was visiting Eramis," he explained, while smacking his gums. "She may no longer be Eramiskell, but she is an old friend."

"What, that monster?" Elsie snarked. Shaking her head, she said, "Why would you want to visit her after all she's done?"

Variks looked to the ground as he chewed on another fig. "All that are Fallen are not lost, yes?" 


End file.
